


speak

by rabbitprint



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Archaeotania, M/M, Male Azem (Final Fantasy XIV), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:27:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26997451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabbitprint/pseuds/rabbitprint
Summary: Spoilers through MSQ 5.3, M!Azem/Lahabrea. Set during the early days of the Sound.Any new specimen of significant note would customarily be cause for excitement within the Capitol, particularly one from another city. They are gifts -- normally.Archaeotania is anything but.
Relationships: Azem/Lahabrea (Final Fantasy XIV)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 26





	speak

**Author's Note:**

  * For [illegible](https://archiveofourown.org/users/illegible/gifts).



> _Prompt from illegible: "When the Sound began wreaking havoc across the star, Amaurot sent Lahabrea with Azem to an area calling for aid. There they encounter, subdue, and retrieve Archaeotania for study. Neither had seen anything so horrific as that foreign city. Most are already dead, some need to be mercy-killed. Lahabrea keeps it together in the field while Azem struggles, but back home Azem finds Lahabrea traumatized in his own right. If you're open to M!Azem/Lahabrea that's my jam, but optional! I give you bonus points if you play with links between Lahabrea-as-orator, mouth motifs, Archaeotania being characterized by a massive mouth, and foreshadowing the First Beast having a face shape reminiscent of Lahabrea's sigil while it's absolutely lined in mouths."_

The retrieval of Archaeotania should have been a matter of great celebration. Any new specimen of significant note would customarily be cause for excitement within the Capitol, particularly one from another city. Amaurot exchanges designs regularly with its peers; each influx of fresh inspiration brings with it a variety of alternate perspectives, renewing creativity and sparking different interpretations like weeds jutting from the soil in spring.  
  
They are gifts -- normally.   
  
Archaeotania is anything but.   
  
This beast comes to them with no blueprint for its organs, no maker's stamp upon its specifications. There are no rules for its usage. It lacks an ecosystem to belong to. The cost of the creature's capture -- the very reason it exists at _all_ \-- is a sobering reminder of the star's growing plight.   
  
Yet the threat of the Sound places even more significance upon the specimen's capture. Unexpected beasts swarm across the cities, and they have already begun to carve out their own ecological niche for themselves with each bloody claw upon the earth.  
  
The crowd which gathers before the Akadaemia Anyder to watch the announcement is subdued. They cluster together for unspoken comfort, tiny knots gravitating towards whoever is closest, like mist gathering itself into droplets upon a windowpane. Fingers clutch at sleeves, shoulders bump. It would do little good for the Convocation to conceal the creature, smuggling it into the back room of an Andyr; everyone's strength and understanding will be needed if they are to save one another.  
  
Like a cresting wave, whispers ripple through the assembly as the ghostly image of Archaeotania appears before them, projected into the air. Despite their fears, they watch avidly as it rotates slowly for their examination, its skin fading into translucent layers as what little is known of its skeleton structure is detailed. The two Convocation members who had captured it stand beneath its massive paws, patiently answering questions.   
  
It is a far cry from the enthusiasm which usually accompanies these presentations. Those revels swell with exhilaration, researchers eagerly murmuring words that blossom like fireflies in their palms, new ideas sparking from each concept on display. Lahabrea thrives off such energies. He is both master of ceremonies, and its most ardent participant.  
  
This time, Lahabrea keeps to his silence, and allows Azem to speak for him.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Azem schedules the first of his catharsis sessions before Archaeotania has even been fully processed into the records. The containment wards are already strained to their limits as the Anyder struggles to keep the beast from breaking free. They cannot deconstruct it safely without knowing how to reproduce it, and so its life is a necessary risk.   
  
He asks for the usual number of meetings -- standard for any violent trauma, guided by charts of time and frequency of direct interactions with negative stimuli -- and then hesitates, thinking back cautiously over the entire experience before requesting more.   
  
Azem's own Words have little to document from this particular journey. Archaeotania was a construct born of Ascian hands, not the younger races, and so the researchers of his branch do not have the usual laborious tasks of deciphering his notes and devising the right indexing structure for the twenty different variations of kumquats that he has brought back. Again. They scatter gratefully when he gives them the news, submerging themselves into the backlog. Azem himself merely unslings his travel gear into a disheveled pile on the floor of his office, making a note of which equipment has survived this time, and which will need remaking.  
  
Then he considers -- once again -- the twisted shape of Archaeotania.   
  
There had been so much _hate_ in it. No -- not hate, he realizes. Some other frantic energy, laced with loathing. The bloated mass of its weight had been aligned to spew its energies from one focal point alone: that of its mouth, its entire body a receptacle for its teeth, vocalizing its intent through every element imaginable. Each one of its assaults had been a scream.  
  
Azem's fingers trace idle circles on his desk, letting his subconscious swim about the mystery, and then he leaves early for his first appointment. 

* * *

  
  
Catharsis is a vital process for keeping one's thoughts healthy. His and Lahabrea's sessions are separate by intention -- not simply to avoid the reignition of memories which can be stirred up in the other, but also to provide an opportunity to speak freely, without fear of hurting the other's feelings. To admit truths which might otherwise fester: _I wish he had given more reassurance. I wish he had heard my uncertainties._  
  
_I was so afraid -- and yet, he seemed heedless of it._  
  
Azem is no stranger to the process. He goes through it every time he returns from a trip that has taken him too deep into some other nation's battles, or when he wades through the griefs of another race's hamlets for months, carrying the memories of starvation and disease upon him. There was a plague that devastated a hyur colony three thousand years back, and the memory stirs every time he sees a spot of mold darkening the rind of a fruit. The world outside of Amaurot -- outside _all_ the Ascian cities -- is full of appetites which are eager to feast upon more than just the body. Scars can be left on every part of one's being.  
  
It does little good to rush a recovery. Instead, Azem sits calmly through each one of his sessions, letting introspection guide him forward as he methodically analyzes and reviews each of his emotional reactions to the memories being drawn forth. Both he and his physickers use aether to shape tableaus of his experience, allowing Azem to slowly begin to look upon the past, and learn how not to recoil.  
  
By the end of the first round -- once he is able to hold an orb of water in the shape of Archaeotania on his palm, regarding it without flinching -- they release him with a clean sheet of health, and a reminder to rest. There is a list of caretakers he can contact if he has difficulty creating the basics of food and drink. Any chances of starvation are thin; Igeyorhm has already visited his home, filling his kitchen with pre-summoned meals of every variety, and fresh ingredients in case he wishes the relaxation of preparing a meal from raw materials.   
  
He closes the door behind him once he arrives, standing in the hush of his home. A residual shiver goes over his skin as he listens to the quiet around him, flinching at the occasional muffled pinging of aether in the machinery of the walls. There is an equal tremble in his nerves, impulses misfiring as his body tenses at the slightest sounds. He keeps expecting to turn on a light in a darkened room, and discover the dead painted across every wall.  
  
But he is safe now, sheltered within the protection of his people. They will keep him safe, just as he seeks to do for them.  
  
This particular experience is over.

* * *

  
  


He does not see Lahabrea for the first week after their return. There is too much to accomplish in the process of healing, particularly when there is far less time available to do it in. The Sound has not dimmed; its volume relentlessly continues to rise, pulses of dissonance which spawn new monsters that embody no purpose save slaughter.   
  
Within Amaurot itself, however, Azem can already feel his strength returning. His soul and mind are both resilient -- necessary criteria for his fitness for office -- and the support of other Ascians is as welcome as water after a drought. There are so many hands outstretched to catch him, steadying him with the reassurance of normalcy. Their presence recalibrates him, reminding him that the world is a place of safety and wonder, and not perpetual horror. That this _was_ an accident, _all_ of it. That Azem lives in a reality where he does not have to turn a corner and find another of his distant kin hanging like grotesque decorations from broken rooftops and lampposts, their intestines rippling out of them like wet cables improperly stowed.   
  
Lahabrea's lack of contact is unsurprising. Azem understands why the man is drained. Lahabrea had been the one keeping them both afloat during the disaster, coordinating messages back to Amaurot in order to call for physickers and engineers. Nearly all of Archaeotania's victims had already been lost to the Underworld. But a precious few struggled to cling to the cusp of life, and he and Lahabrea had frantically worked to triage their conditions even as they had attempted to do the same to the remains of the city, tracking down severed sources to aether and stabilizing ruptured power conduits to keep a second disaster from overflowing.   
  
He assumes that Lahabrea is resting, and that the man's recommended recovery will go even longer. Other Ascians are tending to their Speaker, just as they have lent their strength to Azem in turn.   
  
But -- on the ninth day -- Azem finds himself waiting on Lahabrea's doorstep nonetheless, a container of food balanced carefully on his arm as it politely leaks steam into the evening air.   
  
With his free hand, Azem touches the front door and allows its crystal indicator to resonate with the color of his aether, announcing his identity discreetly to prevent any interruptions to a crafter's focus. After a moment, he considers, and adds a timer to his call -- ten minutes for waiting, so that if Lahabrea is not ready for guests, he can simply allow the window to expire, and know he will not be bothered further.  
  
It is as the very last few seconds are ticking down that Azem hears muffled footsteps approach on the other side. The crystal shifts colors, confirming Lahabrea's presence, and then the door swings open to reveal the man himself.  
  
"Azem," he says. His mask is off. His hair is rumpled, slipping out of a rough braid; he must have tied it back several bells ago, and then forgotten to attend it. "You look well."  
  
Azem lifts the food by way of explanation. The odor of butter and mushrooms seeps out: pasta with cheese and vegetables. "I've brought dinner, if you're hungry for it. Igeyorhm's creation, so you can eat with peace of mind."  
  
Lahabrea blinks at him for a few more moments, the hurricane of his mind having an entire conversation without bothering to share it aloud. Finally he steps back, holding the door open the rest of the way. "Come in."  
  
They eat more quietly than normal in Lahabrea's kitchen, parceling out forkfuls of spinach noodles. The sauce is white, not red; Igeyorhm had considered the menu carefully when she had supplied Azem's provisions, just as she had selected foods which were not overly heavy, in case of nausea. There is more than enough room for them to both stretch out and relax. The default state of Lahabrea's countertops and tables is for them all to be overstocked with experiments and half-drawn designs, cluttered so tightly together that they have begun to build a world of their own, with unique rules for gravitational mass. Now, they have all been packed up. On shelves and in the cupboards, Azem can see the neatly latched rows of containers where the designs have been stacked to keep their aether from contamination, left in stasis or simply archived into crystal sheets.   
  
Kept at arm's reach, until further notice. Kept _away_.  
  
Like Lahabrea's silence, it is a small thing to pick out in the midst of so much other chaos going on. The Sound. The monsters. The deaths.   
  
Dinner remains subdued, the clicking of their silverware tapping against the plates. Azem does not try to force a deeper conversation. Lahabrea does not introduce one. The Speaker's tongue has loosened enough that he drops idle comments on minor topics -- the year's new suggestions for robe modifications, Loghrif's latest kitten -- but he does not voice anything about their present situation, and Azem lets the matter rest.  
  
Inexplicably, however, the man finally speaks up at the end of the meal, just as Azem is busy setting the used dishes aside for deconstruction. "Did you find anything similar between us?"  
  
Baffled, Azem looks up from unmaking a spoon. "How? Archaeotania _devoured_ people."  
  
"It had one means of interaction, and it performed it." The crispness of Lahabrea's analysis is, at least, familiar; he drums his fingers upon the table, reaching out to prod at his coffee cup. "Mayhap to its mind, that _is_ how proper communication is conducted. _We_ were merely the ones who were too fragile to absorb it."  
  
The idea is not an impossible one. But the moment passes too swiftly from conversational into seriousness, and Lahabrea turns his face aside, hand curling around his cup.  
  
"I did not tell you this, Azem," he admits, his voice low. "But its creator was alive when we got there."  
  
Sheer visceral memory strikes Azem like a full-on blow. It breaks effortlessly through every layer of discipline he has grafted over the experience to allow himself to remember it without terror. His mind needs no further nudging; it serves up detail after lurid detail, even as he scrambles to deny them.   
  
In the epicenter of the beast's rampage -- buildings flattened out like trodden stalks of wheat in a field -- there had been a figure lying upon the ravaged concrete. Its robes had puddled into a dark circle, its mask torn away from its face. It had been nearly intact.  
  
_Nearly_ intact -- at first glance. A second look had dispelled the notion completely.   
  
Azem draws in a deep, shuddering breath of air; he half-expects it to be perfumed with blood. " _How?_ "  
  
Lahabrea does not appear to be unbalanced by distress, but his eyes have narrowed in a tight disapproval towards his coffee, as if the drink is a helpless stand-in for himself. "Barely. After the construct had risen, she had sought to force it back under her control. You were struggling so hard to keep yourself going," he explains, stirring enough to look towards Azem with an apologetic furrow of his brow. "I did not wish to expose you to more. But she was alive. Her aether, bound to the creature, so that she breathed with its lungs. Her veins bled with its heart."  
  
The omission was a wise one, in retrospect. Azem does not even think to condemn it. All of his memories feel as if they are beginning to seep again, oozing with blood and serous fluid; he must allow them to carefully scab over in his mind and begin a slow transformation into scar tissue before he can reapproach the subject. The discovery of what he had interpreted to be a corpse had been horrifying enough. She had not been the only victim, but she had been one of the worst.  
  
The rest had already been dead.  
  
If he had realized at the time that the woman had been suffering still, lacking enough of her body to even begin crawling for help -- if Azem had known that _then_ , while surrounded by the fresh horror of the ruined city, each street holding some manner of Ascian who had died in mangled anguish -- then he did not know how much strength he would have had to continue.  
  
And yet Lahabrea _had_ known. _He_ had shouldered that burden while they had been desperately working through the city, sectioning it off by quadrants and triaging the survivors. He had given no sign when they had discovered her, merely sending Azem away to search through another building altogether as he had gone to kneel beside her himself.  
  
And then, while Azem had been gone, he must have granted her rest with his own hands.   
  
Lahabrea had been cool-headed enough to perform that duty. For her -- and, perhaps, for countless more that he had not told Azem about either, keeping up a facade of ruthless focus as he had efficiently gone through each malm of the city, carrying them both forward even as Azem had begun to crumble.   
  
Yet, by the same token, there must be a reason why Lahabrea has chosen to share such information now. Azem does not need to know such details in order to continue his recovery; he might have discovered it much later when reviewing the records, but that would have occurred well after the experience had become manageable in his mind. Not so soon after they had returned. There _is_ a reason, and Azem leaps to it deftly, seizing upon the conclusion with the same swiftness with which he pushes aside his own pains, and allows himself to listen to Lahabrea's instead. "What did you learn from her?"  
  
Lahabrea's mouth struggles around the answer. "She was my counterpart. Speaker for her city. Orator for its vision. And, as she scrabbled to regain enough power to allow herself to die," he continues, his eyes shifting away to fix upon a patch of floor, unable to continue even looking at the cup upon the table or his empty hands beside it, "she told me she regretted all her acts of creation, _every single one_ , for they had given her the skill to birth the very thing that slew her dearest kin."  
  
The significance of such words does not strike Azem in the same way; they do not need to in order for him to recognize how deeply they must have wounded Lahabrea. He abandons the remainder of the dishes by the sink, crossing back to the man's side and leaning over to better study his expression. "Give yourself time for this," he says, sliding his palms over Lahabrea's hands where they have begun to curl into each other, like small creatures slowly dying in silence. "Take a few days in the Anamnesis Anyder, and do naught save shape aether in one of the workrooms. Allow this to work itself out naturally. That city's fate will _not_ be ours. Amaurot's resources are greater -- as are its protections."  
  
Yet Lahabrea is already scoffing, dry-mouthed, shaking his head as he tries to simultaneously pull his fingers away from Azem's touch, and grasp them back in turn. His hands fumble weakly in their confusion, lost between begging and rejection. "Risky enough, with the Sound creating monsters at the scarcest stray thought. If I were to allow myself to become that channel -- to open up my thoughts to whatever my subconscious wished to say -- then it would surely take advantage." The desire for comfort finally wins, and Lahabrea grips Azem's hands tightly, like a pair of anchors in a storm. "If _I_ created such a beast here... "  
  
Such distress is a terrible thing to witness -- but this, at least, Azem can do something about now, before it becomes fatal. He frees one of his hands carefully, lifting it to touch the pad of his thumb to the corner of Lahabrea's mouth, stroking the tight pinch of the man's expression until it softens. "Then all the Convocation would keep it from harming even a single one of our people. Amaurot's walls have stood for thousands upon thousands of years. It will protect all the Ascians who call it home."  
  
He thinks, for a moment, that it will be enough. Then Lahabrea lifts his gaze, seeking out Azem's eyes, unerring in their intent.   
  
"All save you," the Speaker notes softly. "For your road beckons you away from here even now, does it not?"  
  
There is no purpose in lying; they both know what manner of creature Azem is at heart. He catches up one of Lahabrea's hands and brings it to his mouth, pressing the warmth of its skin against his lips in an apologetic kiss. "If there is salvation to be found outside the walls of our cities, then 'tis my duty to uncover it," he acknowledges. "All my years in office have gone towards learning and befriending the peoples of this star. Now is the time to discover what insights they may have, and join our knowledge together in defense of our shared world."  
  
When Lahabrea does not react, fingers lifeless and docile against Azem's palm, Azem quirks his mouth playfully in a different tactic instead. "Come, dear heart," he coaxes, smoothing his hands across Lahabrea's shoulders. He places another kiss upon the Speaker's brow, and then slides to his knees beside the man's chair in invitation. His fingers stroke long, reassuring sweeps along Lahabrea's legs, waiting until he sees the man's breath hitch before he slides them teasingly further up his thighs. "If you will not allow your arts to dispel this malaise, then allow me to practice _mine_ instead."

* * *

  
  
He visits Igeyorhm the next day.   
  
There is little else for him to do in Amaurot, not while he is still recovering. His final reports on Archaeotania have already been delivered, recorded in as much detail as he could bear while the horror of it was fresh enough that he could purge it out into a whole stack of crystal matrices. It had been agony and relief both to offer them up in such a way, excising half-remembered visions of gouged stone and gutted torsos. The duty of interpreting the beast now lies safely in the hands of others. His part is complete.  
  
All that Azem remains responsible for is to understand his own emotions, processing them and the violence of his experience, and then to overcome that fear.   
  
His next visit to the physickers is not for a few days yet, but he is capable enough of assisting with the basics of creation, particularly when Amaurot's researchers are all short-handed. Every skilled crafter in the city has been invested in either stocking up supplies to aid outbreaks across the star, or in trying to decipher future ones before they happen. Igeyorhm takes him up immediately on the offer of aid when Azem knocks upon her door, dragging him by a sleeve to a workroom even as he jogs gamely to keep up.   
  
Hers is a straightforward task, at least. The researchers being assembled to return to Archaeotania's birthplace must travel with a fresh set of measuring equipment, tuned to look for the minute aetheric disturbances they have discovered so far in other outbreaks. It remains uncertain if these distortions come from the environmental aether, or those perceiving it at the time; each device is set to track both values at once. It is vital that the crystals remain in as neutral a state as possible before they are activated -- which is another trick altogether.   
  
The most efficient method, of course, is to hold back all other residual aether from the creation of the crystal and its protective shell. Two Ascians are best for such a making, in order to prevent the crossing of simultaneous intentions. Two Ascians who work well _together_ are equally essential, and so even the Convocation has been lending their talents to the effort, allowing other researchers to focus on their own specialties first.   
  
Between both roles, Igeyorhm has given him the easier task -- that of merely suppressing the aether -- and Azem absently monitors the tide while she concentrates on shaping the crystal itself. She has, as ever, set daunting expectations of herself: a higher quota than anyone else upon the project, and a shorter time to finish it in.   
  
But Igeyorhm has the skills necessary to fulfill such a goal, enough that she does not require absolute silence as they work. When Azem asks if she has noticed anything amiss about Lahabrea since the man's return, she simply gives him a curious glance, and then a shrug.   
  
"He fears creation unchecked," she says, not unsympathetically. "But so do we all. 'Tis why we practice." Her fingers briskly pinch off the last facet of the device and she seals the container shut, stacking it with the rest. "And when practice fails us, that is why we have each other."  
  
She turns to him, shaking out her hands as she waits for a fresh bubble of neutral space to be constructed. "We cannot force Lahabrea through his recovery," she reminds Azem pragmatically. "He will speak when he is ready, and we must allow him the time -- like any other design -- to discern the shape of it first. We can only offer our support, and wait."

* * *

  
  


Apart from his initial bout of silence, the other oddity about Lahabrea manifests in a shift of his working pace. Normally in the mornings, he would be up first -- long before Azem -- tying a robe loosely shut and padding through the rooms of his home, raising half a dozen idle concepts before breakfast. His energies have always ridden him relentlessly, as if even immortality cannot grant him enough time to complete every project brewing in his soul, and so he must race to finish as many as possible before eternity itself ends first.  
  
Now, the Speaker seems willing to linger in bed, even past the times when Azem might rise. Not sleeping. Simply holding himself in thought, one hand always on Azem's body, as if afraid that one or the other of them will vanish the moment Lahabrea allows himself to drift away.  
  
It is reassuring at first. Then worrying. Then, after the fourth day of Lahabrea's reluctance, Azem finally rolls over and studies the other man, feeling Lahabrea's hand adjust to keep its contact upon him.   
  
"Is there aught which you wish to talk about?" He does not bother to pretend he has not noticed; ignorance is not a quality which Lahabrea finds endearing, even if Azem liked it in himself. "What is it, Lahabrea? You can tell me."  
  
Lahabrea watches him back for a moment, and then shifts his attention to the ceiling, where the sun has begun to scatter reflected light across the room. "Remind me what this means again, Azem," he begins. His tone is not curious; it is rhetoric, calm and measured, and only asked as part of a larger question. "We have studied this, I know. What does it signify when one dreams about losing their teeth?"  
  
The answer here is no great mystery. "A sense of weakened health or power," Azem replies. A pat answer; he is already curious for the final conclusion the man must be leading up to. "Teeth are associated with both the ability to speak and to eat. They grant us agency. To lose them represents the anxiety of powerlessness."  
  
Lahabrea makes a slight nod, closing his eyes long enough that he manages an illusion of peace. "And what of mouths themselves? Mayhap, not the _lack_ of teeth, but the presence of far too many?"  
  
This is more difficult. Azem can guess what might have caused such nighttime terrors; he himself had endured several similarly poor nights in the past few weeks. _Anyone_ who had fought Archaeotania in that ruined city would have dreamt of that vast maw gaping open, as if the creature's whole body was unfolding into an infinite string of canines and incisors. "That... there is much which you wish to say, but have not had the opportunity, mayhap?"  
  
Lahabrea's eyes snap open once more. He does not show any signs of either rejecting or accepting the interpretation, only idly tracking the rippling sun across the ceiling. "Mayhap," he replies neutrally. "Sometimes, what we desire may be so strong that we dare not speak it, from fear that its very existence might destroy the ones we love."  
  
This is easier ground for Azem to retreat to. He props himself up on an elbow, drawn into the debate despite feeling as if he is a third party, an outsider in the argument between Lahabrea and himself. "But that is why we take the time to remember our connections with our brethren," he points out. It is a reminder that carries no shame for having to _be_ one; even Azem had attempted to back away during his own sessions, despite knowing the value of the practice. "We perform our exercises as we have been taught, reflecting upon the darkest parts of our thoughts -- and then we share our conclusions _together_ , for by doing so, we can be assured that our fears are not as powerful as we dread them to be."  
  
" _Hers_ were." Suddenly letting go of Azem's arm, Lahabrea covers his face with his hands. His fingers scrub against his brow. "Hers were strong enough to kill everyone she ever held dear. Even with all we do to keep our minds clear and our self-discipline honed, sometimes I feel as if -- "   
  
His voice rises and lowers, muffled behind his palms. Then he yanks his hands back away once more, drawing in a deep breath as he touches his chest, two taps of his fingers like the knock of his own heart against his ribcage. "As if it all might burst out of me, swelling until it ruptures all its confines, each word describing a new monster. As if the Sound will merely voice my own failings back to me. The last thing I will hear when it arrives will be my own weakness taking flight."  
  
"Lahabrea." Sitting up the rest of the way, Azem does his best to unwind what he can of the conversation. They are already teetering on the edge of active distress; he must walk it backwards, finding the nearest stable point to give their Speaker something to orient himself around. "Every irrational fear hides a rational seed that has grown out of control. What lies at the heart of this one? Is it the thought of your creations being turned against Amaurot -- two things you treasure, each destroying the other? Or is there more?"  
  
He expects another roundabout answer, tangling him into the same maze that has devoured their Speaker with its riddles. But Lahabrea only looks to Azem, his own arguments shuttered tightly into silence, battering invisibly against his teeth.   
  
He looks, and then he reaches out silently, rolling Azem back down into the sheets and pressing the length of his body to him.  
  
It is strange that the Speaker cannot find the words -- even crude ones, vague estimations which miss the mark of perfect description. Lahabrea has never been one to restrain his tongue before. He has always offered sighs, mumbles, half-laughs of delighted surprise. Any one of those would have been encouragement enough, and Azem finds himself hoping for any of them.   
  
Sound for the sake of sound. Like the star, shaping noises in the only fashion it is capable of -- as if it, too, has been through something so vast that it does not know what to say either.  
  
But even if events have bound Lahabrea's tongue, he makes his wishes known in other ways. His desires for Azem's company are clear enough. It is his turn now to pull hungrily at Azem's hands, at his hips, both of them occupying their mouths with different forms of speech. He devotes the same intensity of focus to their time together that he does to any other concept, and while his gasps have no words to them, they hold meaning nonetheless.   
  
It is not frightening -- but there is a desperation to it which Azem does not know how to interpret yet. The Echo might help him see if there is anything else in Lahabrea's experience which he has not shared yet, save that it is a matter which the man is clearly struggling over, and that is enough caution to wait. Igeyorhm is right. It is kinder to allow Lahabrea the chance to compose his thoughts -- kinder _and_ healthier, rather than have Azem barge his way into the man's memories and extrapolate from there.   
  
But time makes its own restrictions in other ways. Another city shudders. Another beast is discovered. A bastion of sages to the west of Amaurot dredges up a tome that speaks of an apocalypse, and their whispers spread like wildfire through the terrified villages nearby.  
  
Azem reads the reports on his desk, and knows what must be done.  
  
He broaches the subject that evening after they have both finished dinner, working their way steadily through the remnants of Igeyorhm's last few meals. "I will be leaving Amaurot at the end of this week." He tries to make it as gentle as he can, but there is no means of defanging the truth; even a dull knife can be made to hurt. "I do not know how long I will be absent. It depends how soon I can convince the sages to share their books with me. If we are lucky, it will merely be the outcry from an incorrect translation -- a poor harvest foretold, rather than the end of the star."   
  
He has had similar conversations with Lahabrea in the past before. He remembers them now: all filled with the Speaker's unrelenting delight and curiosity, eagerly questioning for details on the lands to be visited. Demands for Azem to bring back any new, sparkling trinket that caught his attention, no matter how gaudy. There are entire cabinets in Lahabrea's home which are filled with such souvenirs. Lahabrea has adored every single one.  
  
This time, Lahabrea merely offers a smile that does not reach his eyes, no matter how much he tries to force it. "Even with the dangers of the Sound, your fascination with the younger races never wanes. Tell me, Azem -- do you ever resent being dragged back to our affairs?"  
  
This, too, is a strange question, as many of Lahabrea's have been: cryptic, ones he has the answer to already, but needs another's confirmation aloud. "No. Of course not. I explore the world for the sake of Amaurot. Their fates are intertwined." Azem pauses, and then -- feeling a queasy, uncertain tickle of suspicion, adds, "Do _you_ dislike it?"  
  
At first, Azem thinks he finally has uncovered the root of Lahabrea's struggle, buried beneath all of the man's omissions. Then the Speaker breaks into a soft laugh, full of a sincerity that washes away everything else, restoring him back to the person he was before Archaeotania. Before the Sound, before his own private nightmares. "Exploration, discovery, voyaging into the unknown -- these are _your_ passions, Azem. They fulfill the deepest desires of your soul. And I, of all people, cannot criticize when someone follows such a higher purpose. It gives you such delight to pursue your calling, Azem. And I thrill to see you do so. I could _never_ tell you..."  
  
His voice falters suddenly, lurching off course as his smile vanishes, as swiftly as if it has been dropped down a pit. Then he steadies himself, looking back up once more. "I _cannot_ tell you no." It is a declaration as firm as the bedrock of Amaurot itself, unmoving and impenetrable. "It is a beauteous thing, even though it takes you away from me. From _us_ ," he corrects, and then repeats it. "From us."

* * *

  
  
That night, Azem stirs groggily in the sheets of the bed, and finds that Lahabrea is already awake. The curtains of the bedroom are drawn open. The stars outside are brilliant, gleaming like jewels in the celestial tides of aether. The man himself is lying on his stomach, pillow pulled half-under his chest as he stares out the window with a fixed determination that does not waver, not even when Azem groans and accidentally knees his hip.   
  
Azem forces himself to blink muzzily, hauling his wits into some facsimile of order. His skin is warm where Lahabrea's leg is pressed against him; it is a heat that invites him to wrap the rest of his body around the man, tangling them both together as they descend back into sleep. "What is the matter, Lahabrea?"  
  
"She said it had come out of her like a scream." Lahabrea's voice is crisp. Precise. None of the haziness of sleep still clings to him. "Like every word she had ever thought in anger. All of it was present there, within that cry."  
  
With that, Lahabrea finally shifts his weight, cradling his chin in his hand, fingers caging his lips.   
  
"What manner of beast would I become?" he whispers, regarding the darkened sky. "To open its mouth and bring not joy, but punishment upon an entire star?"

* * *

  
  
The threat of the Sound continues to ripple outwards, even as Azem gathers his supplies for his next journey out. The physickers check his aether meticulously, spending several bells as they discuss his sleeping and eating habits, and any fears which are still lingering. They advise him to rest frequently, to note down any moments of anxiety, and to always remember to reach out for help whenever it is needed.  
  
Even in that time alone, more reports have already landed in Azem's office. Far too many villages are in the wake of the Sound and its offspring. The longer he tarries, the more the younger races will be at risk for far more than their physical health -- their cultures will be scarred, generations marked by fear and uncertainty. They may never be able to live entirely free of the consequences, trapped by their own legends: a never-ending cycle that warns against the lure of one's imagination, whispers that loathe the unchecked gaiety of creation.  
  
He has almost finished packing his supplies when Lahabrea raps on his door.   
  
"I do not think you should leave." It is a brisk declaration. Lahabrea delivers it while standing squarely in the doorway, his mask pushed back above his brow, slightly out of breath. He looks as if he has run the entire way between their offices, abandoning his Words in favor of Azem's. "We have need of you in Amaurot. _Azem_ ," he insists softly, nonsensically, "stay _here_ instead."  
  
The request lacks any logical basis. As convoluted as the Speaker's reasoning can be, Azem is usually capable of keeping up. Now is not one of those times. "I must," he says, gently but without wavering. "If either the cause _or_ the cure for the Sound lies somewhere on this star, then I should find it before it is too late. Such is my duty. It is what all my experience in office has equipped me for, as we all have gained proficiency in our own fields." Puzzled, he sets the pack back down upon his desk, hearing its contents shift in muffled protest. "I will take precautions, Lahabrea. If there is trouble elsewhere, the Convocation needs only summon me, and I will fly back with the same haste as before."  
  
When Lahabrea does not offer further explanation, merely hesitating at the door, Azem finally presses further. "Is there another reason I should not go?"  
  
With that, the Speaker's gaze darts back up to him. A wince unfolds across his face. Then a whole host of other emotions follows like quicksilver, ones that Azem does not know how to read, for they blur past with the same rapidity as the man's fastest inspirations: a frown tilting his mouth, a creasing of his brow, a rueful affection that is as sincere in its passion as the very first time Lahabrea had kissed him.  
  
The only interpretation Azem can make of it is one that offers no real insight at all. Lahabrea looks _lost_ , plaintive, as if he has ended up at the bottom of an empty well, and every piece of him has no memory of how he landed there. It is the first time he has ever seen the man appear in such a distraught state, and Azem can already feel himself beginning to shape the words, _yes, I will stay_.  
  
But Lahabrea preempts the conclusion first. "No," he says simply, shaking his head even as his expression twists shut into something private. His smile is resigned. "There is none."  
  
With that, Lahabrea inclines his head -- his fingers slipping away from the doorknob, the door itself left listlessly open -- and leaves without another word.  
  



End file.
